Collab One Shots: Cilla Wright
by Igrayne01
Summary: A new character to the Carth Community collaborative stories, Cilla Wright makes her entrance in this one-shot after the events of Collaborative: Everything Burns.
1. Acquisition CW

**Disclaimer: This story is written by Our Mrs. Reynolds and is cross-posted here with her permission. You can see the original one-shot on her account (id: 1461462).**

**Chapter 1 - Acquisition CW**

Cilla Wright opened her eyes carefully. Her bed was on the far end of the room where her mum had said it made the place look bigger. But it also meant that all the sunlight in the whole world, _ever_, crashed straight into her eyes each morning. She knew that grownups were expected to resent their parents, and this, she reasoned, was why. Cilla still had a few minutes before the alarm would chime, so she used them to full groggy advantage. She rolled and stretched and yawned so long and loud that she thought a bug might fly into her mouth, then swung her legs over the side of her bed and slapped the clock before it could scold her. Her feet still didn't quite reach the floor so she half hopped half fell from the thick sheets. Tugging her night shirt down around her knees (it was her father's old military undershirt and laughably big on her) she padded across the thick carpet, enjoying the warmth from the sun under her bare feet. Cilla wondered why she couldn't smell breakfast by the time she reached her bedroom door; the narrow hall outside led straight to their tiny kitchen, but today it seemed quiet. She gripped the doorknob, but before she could turn it a dizzying pain seared through her palm, shocking her beyond even screaming; it raced up her arm gagging and scalding as it went. But as the pain reached her head it changed into a terrified numb pounding that fled to her heart and gut.

CW749 crashed awake and hurtled to her feet, screaming. She absently dragged the oversized nightshirt down to her knees, not noticing how it scratched the backs of her legs. Her hand was sore and raw, bright pink blisters already rising in her palm. She was standing on her tiny cot, surfing the uneven mattress and rickety trembling springs. The boys from Building 17 were howling with laughter. Zach, their ringleader, had collapsed onto his knees before her, crying and taking great whooping breaths between his nasal guffaws. CW was partially aware that her berth-mates had formed a semi circle around the back of her cot, laughing and pointing along with Zach. Anger swept through her, blotting out the pain and confusion. They were picking on her again, this time badly. This time they had actually _hurt_ her – the red-hot pebble lay burning a black smudge onto the concrete next to her cot – but worse than that, even worse than the humiliation, they had woken her up from her dream. She had almost made it into the hall, and the hall of her home was only small – once she could get to the hall she was practically in the kitchen where her mother would be waiting for her. She desperately needed to get to the kitchen, before she completely forgot the face her mother. Her mother's smell had been the first thing she'd lost. Next was her voice (though she struggled and fought wildly not to, until she was too tired to get up in the mornings and Mistress Haidly had taken _the wand_ to her). But now CW was losing the face of her mother and that was too much.

Hot tears rolled down the sides of her face and stung her parched, red cheeks. This only made the crowd's nightmare howling worse. Her vision was blurred and her body seemed to be swallowed with heat. CW held her breath and puffed out her cheeks with concentration, clenching her fists until her arms trembled. She thought she could almost feel something change in the air – something was almost happening. The screeching children's laughter was just a benign whoosh that didn't matter anymore. The room dipped and swayed, like looking through a heat haze. She could almost touch it now, so solid, the thing she thought of as _the ripple_. She held on for a moment longer, waiting till it stopped slithering and was calm around her, then she began to reach forward with her mind, like coaxing a small animal out from its hiding. Gently now, don't crush it, don't give it reason to run. The fingers of her mind curled slowly around the ripple while a euphoria rushed through her, from the tingling top of her head down to her toes. She began to feel weightless and happy and utterly calm. She didn't notice that the room had been enveloped in a hushed and reverential kind of fear. She didn't notice that Mistress Haidly was stood at the back of the room by the double wide doors with two or three nameless 'volunteers' craning to see round her stiff folds of fat.

CW was thinly aware that the room had turned itself upside down and that her hair stood limply up from her head and her one-size-fits-all nightshirt hung snugly across her front but billowed over her back like the scruffy sail of a scruffy ship. The ripple was making her delirious with victory and satisfaction, but the sensation didn't last long: the shining, hazy thing she loved so much and that always promised to love her back (if she could just hold it long enough!) was already thrashing out of her grip. The harder she tried not to let go the more it thrashed and crawled away from between her tightly wound fingers. She breathlessly scurried after it, swallowing the tears and cries that welled up in her throat. Somehow she was on her hands and knees and the floor was different. Then she was running on all fours. Somewhere, very far away, something screamed. It wasn't the kind of scream she was used to hearing, those of frustration and impatience, this was the haunting scream that comes from absolute fright. She wondered at that and instantly the shimmering thing was gone. Completely.

CW felt tired, more tired then she'd ever been, and allowed the great weight to peel her upright where she fell hard to the floor.

For the third time that morning, CW woke up. This time a crowd of pasty, gaping gawkers clustered over her. She wasn't in her cot this time either and her back and neck hurt beyond belief. She rolled her eyes, her head too sore to move. Mistress Haidly was there staring down at her with a look like the taste of sick across her face. CW noticed how the woman's rolls of fat drooped over the edges of her corsetry and how the loose chicken flesh of her neck and chins swayed. In agonizing slow-motion, Mistress Haidly unsheathed _the wand_ from her belt and jabbed it into CW's soft belly. The little girl 'oofed' involuntarily from the pressure.

The room seemed to come alive again. Half of the children started whooping and applauding stupidly while the other half bellowed and wailed like infants for their mammies. Mistress Haidly was the most frightening thing in the room though: her eyes bulged from her froggy head while deep purple blotches swept up her chest, across her neck and onto her yellow face. CW's confusion began to part and she very much wanted to be away from that woman. Now. The roaring ache through her back forgotten, CW sprang to a crouch and wobbled on traitorous legs. Mistress Haidly's hands clutched at the girl, first gathering great handfuls of stiff fabric, then swimming through the nightshirt till they reached skin and hair. Then they pulled. CW cried out with both pain and fear and fell back against the Mistress's armoured torso. The giantess scratched and pawed at CW, hunting for a grip that the tiny girl couldn't slither out of.

**************************************

The 'bad girl room' was a tiny, cold cell with one source of light and a hard rough floor that made your feet hurt if you tried to stand. CW sat curled into a tight little ball in a corner, the expansive folds of her nightshirt pulled over her head and legs like a sack. Her face rested against her knees, her hair hanging like greasy straw all around her. Only her brow poked out the top of her shirt. She stank, but the light shining into her nightsack was comforting; there was something homey about the warm dark little space, but she couldn't put her finger on why. Her head was still a little spinny from earlier when she'd finally caught the ripple. She'd caught it a few times before, but this was the longest it had ever let her hold it. She felt both loved and frightened by it, but mostly she just needed it, more than when she got hungry or tired or needed to pee, she needed to catch the ripple.

The bruises across her buttocks and back from _the wand_ hurt, making her fidget and shift her weight. Her neck was still sore too, and now her stomach was rumbling, but the happy haze that the ripple left behind eased all these things.

By the time her pulse was slow and her breathing heavy and her bum had gone numb she heard footsteps coming up the corridor outside. The thick, slip resistant soles worn by the nurses made a rhythmic squeaking along the narrow halls that CW would have found funny at any other time. The steps paused outside her cell, followed by the chilling sound of rusting metal on rusting metal as the door swung open. The noise barbed and snagged at CW's mind. She looked to the door, her senses muggy from inactivity. The tall figure in the doorway blocked out most of the bright light, but some escaped past, making her eyes ache and squint tight. The figure (she thought it a man from the boxy uniform) stepped up to CW and nudged her arm gently. She stood up, grunting with unexpected effort. Her balance was poor and the pins and needles in her feet made her limp, but she followed the nurse into the chicken-soup colour corridor. She walked alongside him, struggling to match his long, easy strides. The floor was smoother on her feet here than in the bad girl room. A kind of pearly sheen to the ground told her that a lot of bad girls had walked this same path.

Gradually, CW's eyes adjusted to the sickly light as she began to really see her surroundings; so many tall narrow metal doors. All with the same gap-toothed little window at the top. All closed. Her mind spun at the thought of so many other bad girls and her pace faltered. The tall nurse stooped a little to take her by the hand – his was clammy and unpleasant. CW lifted her head to see the nurse. He was smiling at her. She smiled back, not knowing what else to do. He slowed his pace a little.

Near Mistress Haidly's office, CW stopped walking. The tall nurse looked at her questioningly, but she buried her chin in her chest, suddenly amazed by how black her feet had become. The tall nurse gently squeezed her hand and gave a little tug. But the more he pulled her forward the more she resisted. The tall nurse began to grow impatient - she could feel it. She was sorry for making him annoyed with her, but she wouldn't see Mistress Haidly again, not today. She was embarrassed. Something really big had happened to her before and a lot of people would look at her like a freak now (not least of all Mistress Haidly) and she didn't want to be looked at or scolded. She wanted to be left alone.

The tall nurse tugged on her hand again. CW wanted to be left alone. He tugged again. She tugged back. He was really annoyed now. He dropped her hand and took a heavy step towards her. He stooped low and lifted her off the ground with embarrassing ease. **CW wanted to be left alone**. She could feel the hot sticky orange of his annoyance, but mostly she felt a blazing crimson of her own. She inhaled the prickling air that swarmed around her and felt suffocated. The tall nurse carried CW against his chest, looking over his shoulder like a sack of groceries. Everything looked red now. She began beating the tall nurse, pummelling her fists against his iron shoulders. It wasn't enough. She twisted in his sweaty grip till it felt like her guts were being wrung out then beat her fists against his skull. (A part of her noticed how close his hair was cut and how there were funny little white stripes on his skull where hair didn't grow). She beat till her hands were cramped and her arms trembled, all the time willing them to leave her alone, but they were nearly at Mistress Haidly's door now. CW tried to scream and beg and wail but her voice cracked and she only whimpered instead. Her eyes wouldn't even water, she was trapped and no one even knew it. Her arms were heavy and she couldn't beat any more, only pat the nurse lamely while gulping and trying to force a prayer from her stinging lungs. She inhaled the crimson again, trying to find more strength, but found only muted anger.

Then she could see the ripple again. It danced teasingly in front of her. She was too tired to chase it this time though. Instead, she held out her tired arms and shushed her pleading mind. She didn't scold like Mistress Haidly did, she listened. Then the ripple came rushing into her. She breathed it in until her chest burned and her head felt like bursting, then she exhaled an icy calm breath that seemed to last forever. 'I want to be left alone now'.

**************************************

Cilla Wright walked quietly out of Building 16-Girls! and through the dirty front courtyard. Her feet made little kissing noises on the sticky asphalt which she found funny. She walked past Building 17-Boys! and wondered if Zach was somewhere in a 'bad boy room'. When Cilla reached the loping front fence (which everyone called 'the cage') she walked to the striped little house where the cage guard lived. Cilla stood outside his window a long time before he finally noticed her.

The cage guard saw a round-faced little girl wearing a sagging nightshirt and feet caked with filth. Horrified, the guard began to reach for his comm.

'I'm to be left alone now', Cilla said. The cage guard nodded and went back to reading his brightly coloured magazine. Cilla reached her hand through the window, having to stand on tip toe, and pressed the large green button marked 'release'. Then Cilla walked quietly out of the cage.


	2. Like A Kid In A Candy Store

**Disclaimer: This story is written by Our Mrs. Reynolds and is cross-posted here with her permission. ****You can see the original one-shot on her account (id: 1461462).**

**Chapter 2 - Like a Kid In a Candy Store**

Cilla walked down busy streets and dead streets chanting her new mantra over and over. She turned it into a little meandering song that she sang to the towering grey buildings who seemed to bend at their tops to listen to her. Adults rushed passed Cilla in every direction, most were too busy to care about a homeless little girl, but a few people did notice the state of her. Their concern was fleeting, however. Within moments of hearing her their eyes took on a glassy sheen and their faces slackened as they shambled on by.

Cilla paused outside a small shop with large oily windows hosting an army of gooey, plump sweet-rolls, their surfaces shining with sugared grease. She padded into the shop through a swinging door with a big sticky handle.

A pinkie coloured woman behind the high glass counter peered down at Cilla. A frown creased the pinkie woman's fleshy, moist face, making her look like the wrinkled undersides of the pastries she'd been relentlessly selling since dawn. The pinkie woman opened her mouth to shoo the little beggar girl away, but Cilla returned the scowl, unblinking, 'I'll have one of everything. Thank you.'

Outside and around the back of the small shop, among crates carrying a thick layer of dark sludge and foamy yellow fungus that oozed from the brick walls like toxic lace, Cilla was very sick. She doubled over, gripping her rippling stomach, her muscles hot with spasms. Up came undigested baked delight after delight – their inorganic crusts still gleaming with saccharine promise. Cilla wretched again, coughing up mostly air and pale ribbons of bile. Some of her vomit had splattered against her bare feet and shins, making a slimy, silky goo between her toes.

When she was able to, Cilla slunk away from the evil little shop, vowing to never, ever eat anything green and shiny again. Her feet felt rubbery with grime and foul smelling, brightly coloured chunks were hardening to the front of her nightshirt. She lurched her way out of the dank alley and back into the throng of bustling pedestrians. She clung to the sides of tired looking buildings, not trusting either her knees to support her, nor her mantra to shield her.

Cilla continued her trudge through the city's busiest back streets, uncaring of where she was headed, just that it was in opposition to the tide of adults around her and that was plenty good enough. Gradually, the livid ache from her stomach began to subside and Cilla was able to judge her surroundings. She'd wandered into the market district, her feet carrying her along the same path she had walked on weekends with her mother, now so long ago. Here people were too preoccupied with their shopping to notice her.

The market district was also home to a significant number of the city's beggars. Crippled and lame sat cosily alongside blind and mad. Cilla stepped over a loudly snoring man; his face tightly bandaged in soiled rags, but whose legs sprawled into the street, exposing blistering sores and coagulating pus.

She propelled herself through the food quarter, not taking her eyes from the path in front of her. Her stomach rumbled resentfully at the smells and greasy steam that accosted her, but the sudden rising of saliva in her throat was enough to keep Cilla hurrying away from ill advised temptation.

Eventually, Cilla left the food quarter and headed over a wide arching bridge that signalled the textiles quarter. Half way across, she slumped to the ground, enjoying the cool air that flowed off the water of the canal beneath her. Foot traffic on the bridge was heavy, but it was also a scenic view of the canal that snaked its way through the city, distracting the passers-by from the beggars that lined either side of the bridge. Cilla leaned her back against the cool balustrades and let the sound of the canal lap her to sleep.

Moments later, Cilla was awoken by boisterous laughter from nearby. She opened her eyes, squinting in the unexpected sunlight. She'd slept longer than she thought – the sun was high in the cloudless sky and the pounding heat of the afternoon had driven many of her fellow drifters into quieter seclusions of shade. Cilla turned her head in the direction of the laughter. She saw a group of grown ups (teenagers) sprawling against the sides of the bridge. Their posture and body language exuded an apathetic cool that Cilla was awed by. Their clothing and accessories, too, struck a chord with Cilla. They were like what her mother called 'peedunkies', or punks, that hung around in her old neighbourhood. Cilla had strived to emulate their nihilistic attraction, but her mother had firmly disapproved and thrown away the most aggressive bits of tat that Cilla accumulated, sighting the dangers of wearing rusty nails instead of their unspeakable cool. But Cilla's mother wasn't around now.

One of the group noticed Cilla staring at them, a woman, judging by the excessive barbs of bright red hair. 'Aww, look at that little kid!' The quill-headed woman (girl) said.

Cilla felt her cheeks flush, but she'd already been spotted by the group and saw little point in pretending otherwise.

'Shit,' a man (boy) with lank blue waves of hair spat, 'it's covered in crap. Man, that's nasty.'

Cilla become painfully aware of the bright orange and green barnacles of vomit that clustered on the front of her nightshirt. She looked away, her face and ears burning with embarrassment and her eyes fiercely watering.

'Oh my god. You made her cry!' the quill-headed girl said. Despite the sincerity in the girl's voice, many of the other kids snickered.

Cilla was suddenly overwhelmed with anger, she'd been humiliated and belittled in front of a group she desperately wanted to belong to. Well, if they wouldn't have her, she didn't want them either. Cilla leapt to her feet and dove head first into the wave-hair boy. Her skull collided with his flabby stomach, knocking the boy clean onto his back.

As Cilla gathered her legs under her, ready to make a break for it, she heard wild laughing and applauding from the rest of the kids. They were applauding _her_. They _liked_ her. The quill-headed one was laughing so hard she toppled from her perch on the bridge and fell amongst her friends. To make sure this wasn't some sort of happy mirage, Cilla heaved a kick into Wave-Hair, connecting with the side of his stomach. He screamed and rolled away from her, clutching his kidney. As Cilla had wished, the gang's appreciation grew audibly louder. Cilla stood facing them sceptically, still not convinced her temper could also be her appeal.

A darkly handsome man-boy stepped from the centre of his chortling friends. He walked up to Cilla wiping tears away from his bright eyes. 'Oh man. Oh shit. That was really funny! Fuck . . .' He giggled. He took Cilla's hand in his gloved own and shook it firmly. 'Wow, kid. You're a star.'

Cilla remained impassive, willing him to overlook the ragged and gross state of her. He seemed to comply, tugging her towards him and into the centre of his group. A fat boy with bad skin patted Cilla on the back, making her trip over a little. But she smiled and shrugged it off – after all, she was one of the big kids now. The quill-headed girl crawled to her knees, still tittering, and spread her arms to embrace the little girl. Cilla stepped forward hesitantly, not sure she welcomed such close contact. She girl gasped as she focused on Cilla's nightshirt. 'Yuck!' She exclaimed. 'What the fuck have you been eating, kid, paint chips?'

Cilla couldn't help but laugh at the image, which made the other girl begin laughing too. 'Wow. We have got to get that shit cleaned up. That ok with you?' Cilla nodded her consent, unwilling to jinx her good fortune by opening her mouth and saying something stupid.

Cilla was led by the hand through the mottled streets of the market. Shops here were a combination of cluttered stalls with dusty, faded garments hanging like laundry and minimalist boutiques housing a handful of gauzy dresses that looked like the insides of tears. The bright-eyed boy and the quill-headed girl walked on either side of Cilla, matching her pace and even stopping when she did to gaze into windows. The rest of the group browsed behind Cilla and her two friends, looking bored.

Eventually, Cilla was led down a sloping covered street that opened onto a small square. Cilla had never seen this part of the market before and her eyes glowed with new sights. Small crowded booths encircled the square, bedecked with black leather garments and bright, multi-coloured tights, wigs, bags, knee socks and other paraphernalia. The centre of the square was brimming with other peedunkies. Most sprawled on the grimy saw-dust strewn ground while a few trawled listlessly through the shops, looking like walking mannequins for the items they browsed.

The bright-eyed boy and the quill-headed girl continued through the square to a little narrow doorway sat in a corner shop between two tall brick walls. Cilla walked through the doorway and onto grey streaked plank flooring that rattled and teetered under her. The shop was deceptively large with a labyrinth of racks and bins breaking up the angular space. The whole place smelled of leather and expired makeup. Music like war drums pounded from dusty speakers imbedded in the ceiling's recesses.

The half dozen or so that had followed Cilla and her two friends into the shop dispersed, like grazing cattle. Cilla was hustled by the boy and girl into a large square room with a low arched ceiling. It's dark brick walls were lined with precarious rows of women's clothing. Cilla headed into a tiny changing booth at the far end, past a row of short, pleated skirts with comically large buckles and zips that she very much hoped would be chosen for her.

The curtain in Cilla's booth didn't quite reach either side of the doorframe and stopped well above her knees, making it easy for her to squat on her haunches and watch her new friends pluck items from the racks and toss them towards her. Cilla greedily snatched up the clothing and hugged it to her, revelling in the attention and illicit thrill of doing something which her mother would not approve of.

In the end, Cilla was put into an outfit that her friends assured her was very grownup and made her look at least 12. Cilla thought the clothes looked very much like what all the other girls in the shop were wearing, but that was still ok by her.

As she walked out of the little booth (her new boots squeaked and pinched already. _And_ the striped tights felt saggy) she was immediately shushed and waved between the bright-eyed boy and the quill-headed girl. The girl smiled down at Cilla and put a long-nailed finger to her lips. The boy said 'Stay close to us, ok? Walk when we do and don't say anything.'

Cilla nodded, but she was developing a very bad feeling about all this in the pit of her fishnet-clad stomach. The three punks strode casually out from the dark room and into the main shop, the slightly green lighting and blaring music making Cilla flinch. As they wove their way through make-shift aisles of clothing, Cilla concentrated on emitting what she hoped was an air of innocence.

Although her escorts walked on the far side of the shop, furthest away from the counter and the man behind it, the shop's exit was directly across from the fat little man with his shiny head. Cilla chanced a glance at the man, but he seemed immersed in the funnies he was reading from his holopad.

As the trio neared the exit, the little man's rasping voice halted them in their tracks, 'Hold it! That the same kid you came in with?'

There was a pause before either of her friends answered which Cilla thought was painfully long.

'No.' The quill-headed girl said, finally. 'She's still in the back there with the rest of our friends. We're just,' she paused mid sentence to swallow audibly, 'she needs to pee,' she said, pointing at Cilla, 'so we were just going to take her and then come right back.'

'She's a big kid,' the shop keeper said. 'She can go by herself. But you two stay here.'

'You can't hold us,' the bright-eyed one said. 'Are you stupid? We haven't done anything wrong!' Cilla was within dashing distance of the exit, but she doubted her friends would make it out with her. 'What are you gonna do to keep us here, asshole?' The boy said as he began inching his way towards the exit.

Without a word, the shop keeper reached beneath his plywood counter and brought out a large, customised mutt of a laser rifle. He sat it heavily upon the counter, muzzle pointed towards Cilla. She could feel the muscles of her companions tense on either side of her.

'Ok,' bright-eyes said, clicking his tongue over his perfect teeth. 'Ok, why don't we just pay for my friend's shit now. Then we can all go back to our own business, right?'

Cilla peered up at the boy, her curiosity flanking her caution. Bright-eyes sidled up to the counter, his rigid hair trembling with each cocky step. Cilla moved to accompany him, but quill-head placed a firm hand on her shoulder. The bright-eyed boy stopped a few feet away from the counter, next to a teetering display of provocative badges and pins. The boy and the shop keeper sized one another up for a moment, the boy still clicking his tongue across his white teeth. The shop keeper extended an arm to his side and switched the thundering music off.

In an instant the boy had toppled the display into the shop keeper's face. The keeper staggered backward, allowing the bright-eyed boy to snatch up the rifle from the counter. The weapon was cumbersome and heavy and before the boy could swing the barrel to face the man, the shop keeper had lunged over the counter and swung a scarred fist at him. The keeper's aim was wide and his fist sailed past the boy's chin, but the boy was so surprised he involuntarily squeezed the rifle's trigger. A roaring blast of light shot through the boy's chest, leaving a hole as big as the top of his arm. The boy tumbled backwards, snagging a rack of black leather trousers and bringing the entire row down upon him.

Quill-head screamed and dug her nails so deep into Cilla's shoulder she thought it might come off. 'You fuck! You crazy mother fucking fuck!'

The girl thrust herself across the shop, vaulting over the mound of clothes and the lifeless boy. She collided with the stunned shop keep, driving a small pocket knife into his throat and tearing it wide open. The man's eyes bulged from his head and blood showered from the chasm in his neck. The girl was doused instantly, reeling backward with horror. The shop keeper scurried in tight, panicked circles before colliding with the edge of the counter. His feet skidded on the river of blood and he fell heavily to the soaking ground. There he writhed and bucked, his arms and legs thrashing around him, his head beating against the floor. The sound of his skull cracking and splashing was freakishly audible above the hollow echo of blood spattering the plywood counter.

Within seconds of the violence, the shop light dimmed as punks, kids and hangers-on crowded into the doorway around Cilla. 'Oh, my –' someone began. But before anyone had time to form another word, Cilla Screamed.

To her, the sound was far away and empty: like a dull drone stretching over miles and miles of nothing. Then it was crawling and swimming around her feet, lifting her slowly away from the little shop. She was watching a breaker of noise tumble towards the shore, high above the sea, miles above anything that could touch her or harm her. Her vision became grainy and dim, but for fifty feet all around Cilla, the world was breaking. A sonic ripple seeped through the shop and spread like ink in water into the crowded square, instantly bursting the hearts and lungs of everyone nearby.

Cilla floated above the square, her mind and senses fuzzy as if she'd taken too much cold medicine. She watched the scene below her with mild disinterest; what she saw was only important to someone else, not her, like catching the holonews through a neighbour's window. She noticed how all the little ant-people below crumpled and fell; those crowded around the shop fell first, then an invisible tide seemed to lash the rest, making everybody in the small square fall down and sleep like a big, secret party game.

Cilla watched, half amused, as her feet picked themselves over the tiny, still forms on the ground. It took her some time to tiptoe her way through the square and by now all the sleeping forms were becoming unpleasant. Blood seeped from their ears into long streams that wound along the ground into a central water drain. She also noticed large dark stains blooming on people's bums, blood slowly oozing to join the thinner, cleaner strands from their heads before gurgling down the drain.

A shattered windowpane crunched under Cilla's boot. She blinked, and looked around. The smell of emptied bowels was the first thing to creep into her consciousness, behind it coiled nightmarish realisation. Beads of sweat broke out across her brow, her stomach tightened, her own bowels rumbled ominously and her heart flapped like a dying bird in her chest.

Cilla ran in whichever direction she saw first, zagging her way through crowds, fences, even traffic. She leapt down a tiled staircase set into a wide sidewalk and hit the ground running. She slid under a turnstile barrier and sprinted along the narrow platform. When her tearing eyes saw a dead-end she dove off the platform, bounded to the other side of the rumbling trench and heaved herself onto the parallel side. From there she wove herself through stunned groups of adults till she came to another turnstile with more stairs beyond it. She hurdled over the barrier and up the stairs, two at a time, exiting onto another wide street.

Her adrenaline and terror carried her further than her legs could have otherwise. By the time Cilla finally collapsed she was a quivering, panting bundle of nerves. Slowly, gradually, Cilla's legs stopped trembling enough to support her. But by now the sun had set and the city sky was beginning to blossom in the dirty hues of evening. Cilla didn't want to expose herself to anyone that might be looking for her, but she didn't relish the idea of being molested in the middle of the night down some grimy alley either.

Reluctantly, Cilla pawed herself upright and made her way out of the skinny alley. Her new boots scratched at her ankles pitilessly, making her eyes water with each step. But she knew better than to try going bare foot again, especially over these dirty, dark streets where things crunched and splattered under her heavy soles.

The evening had become dark night when Cilla eventually turned down yet another slim, winding alleyway. All the buildings here had high, skeletal windows with thick foggy glazing which let almost no light fall in her direction. No streetlamps bothered to light this part of town, making her fumble and feel her way around the darker corners of her path. She was completely lost now, but she was also determined to keep going and not double back on herself. At the end of the alley she came to a high wire fence with a clearing, or opening on the other side. She scoured the fence, her tiny fingers and toes fitting between the diamond pattern of the wire, and dropped to the other side with a jaw jittering thud. She patted around on the ground, her fingers delicately stroking what felt like dry grass. That explained the eerie stillness and poor light – she'd wandered into one of the many abandoned residential slums. She'd be mostly alone here, miles from the bustling city centre.

Cilla limped quietly to the far end of the grass patio where a spindly board fence marked the boundaries. She pressed her face against the splintered wood, squinting between rough cracks. She stood atop a steep hill, looking down into a vast basin of smoggy light and towers. The descent of the hill was dotted with squat lonely buildings and reedy shrubs. A parched road drizzled its way down, punctuated by yellow, buzzing streetlamps but little traffic.

The base of the hill broadened into a wide, flat highway, the sounds of which slowly drifted up to Cilla. She recognised where she was instantly, or at least hoped she did. It was the Valley, the industrial artery just beyond the city. Her mother had worked in a factory down there and Cilla had sometimes blagged her way in to visit during lunch breaks. Between her hazy memories of her mother's factory and her near birds-eye view, Cilla thought she could navigate her way to what she needed most: the space port.

Top of Form


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